


Pitches Love Velocity

by bohnem990



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Dallas Stars, Fuckboy Tyler Seguin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bohnem990/pseuds/bohnem990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no use in talking about money to Tyler, Brownie knows. It’s the reason that Brownie was the one to major in business in college, while Tyler majored in drinking with a minor in marketing. </p><p>“If you want to drop a grand on one night at a sports event can’t you at least spend it on a real sport?”</p><p>Several people, Tyler included, gape at him. </p><p>“Like hockey,” Brownie barrels on, “We could totally go to a hockey game. We’re Canadian, Segs! We’re supposed to eat, sleep, and breathe hockey!” </p><p>--</p><p>Alternately : “Dude,” Brownie laughs, “I think Jamie Benn’s agent just asked you to fuck him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitches Love Velocity

**Author's Note:**

> If you think you’ve heard the story behind this story before, then you have. I was at my bartending job during the first week of the MLB postseason and two of my managers were talking about a pitcher (yeah I don’t know which pitcher) who had just hit a homerun and the fan who caught it. The pitcher wanted the ball back so badly that he had his agent offer the fan any sum of money for the ball. The fan looked at the agent and told him that he would rather meet the pitcher than take the money, and then he could have the ball back. Being a writer, I decided this absolutely had to be turned into a fic. 
> 
> So I texted the amazing [gingjams](%E2%80%9Darchiveofourown.org/users/gingjams/pseuds/gingjams%E2%80%9D) and told her I had the most perfect idea for a fic. Of course she agreed, because we’re those kinds of people. This fic literally could not have been written without her. Gingjams is my queen. Props to her for figuring out Natty Daddy was a thing. It made several cameos in this fic. Also RIP Paul Bissonette, aka Biz Nasty, who was supposed to feature in this fic, but instead Oduya became a bigger entity than expected. 
> 
> Side Note One: There is no one true POV in this fic. It’s written from first person and it’s not all Tyler or all Jamie (with a few bits of Brownie). It’s a bit of both and whatever fits best at that point in the fic. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. 
> 
> Side Note Two: My knowledge of baseball consists of the fact that the Cubs went to the playoffs for the first time since.. well, I think it was 2003. See? That’s what I know about baseball. I know the positions and how innings work and that there are four balls and three strikes and a bunch of other useless shit. I have never seen the inside of a baseball locker room, but I have seen enough hockey locker rooms to assume they are the same. There is a lot of hand waving when it comes to baseball and timelines. Also I’m aware the Texas Rangers are based out of Arlington, Texas. I have chosen to ignore this fact. 
> 
> Side Note Three: There was an article, generously titled “Ice, Ice Baby”, that came out once I was 8K deep into this fic. It featured Tyler Seguin wearing a Lavin suit and Givenchy shirt and holding a glass of wine. I laughed for a million years. [Here](%E2%80%9Dimg%E2%80%9D) is the picture from that article. I did take from the article that the team’s go to bar after a game was So&So’s. 
> 
> Side Note Four: I am a bartender and I drink a lot of wine. But I am pretentious about my wine and if it’s not moscato I’m not going to drink it. So there was a lot of googling expensive wine and I have no idea how these things taste or smell or how a vineyard works but ask Tyler, I’m sure Tyler would love to tell you.

“Hi, um, excuse me.” 

Tyler is halfway into Brownie’s lap, with a beer in one hand and brandishing a baseball in the other. He caught the ball only minutes ago, leaning over Brownie to pluck the fly ball out of the air, spilling half of his beer down Brownie’s side in the process. Brownie’s fingers are digging harshly into Tyler’s side because now he’s wet with beer, but Tyler doesn’t care, he’s got one of Jamie Benn’s balls in his hand. 

There’s the sound of a throat clearing at the end of the aisle where Tyler and Brownie are sitting, a man wearing an obviously expensive suit is attached to the voice. 

The suit is from Marc Jacobs’ Fall Collection (Tyler owns one from the same line), so obviously he looks up, still spinning the baseball in his hands that he’d caught from the home run Jamie Benn had hit earlier in the inning. Sidney fucking Crosby is standing at the end of the aisle. His face is tinged red, though Tyler has no idea if it’s from the Dallas sun beating down on them or annoyance at the antics playing out before him. Tyler is still sprawled across Brownie’s lap. 

“Hi, um,” Sidney tries again. 

“You’ve said that twice, man,” Tyler laughs and Brownie elbows him viciously in the side because Tyler is fucking embarrassing when he’s drunk.

“I’m Sidney Crosby, Jamie Benn’s agent.” Sid pushes a business card Tyler’s way, like he expects that Tyler has no idea who he is. 

Tyler is trying really hard not to laugh. He wants to pull his phone out and Instagram Crosby’s face into Internet history, but Brownie already yelled at him once. Tyler isn’t allowed to Instagram when he’s drunk, not since he almost posted a picture of him drinking terrible, ‘lower class beer’ to their business account.

“Right.” 

“Mr. Benn,” Sidney continues, now that it has been established which Benn brother he is speaking about, “would like that ball back. He’ll pay any sum of money for it.” 

Tyler stops fidgeting with the ball and looks down at it. 

“Mr. Benn,” he snickers. “Tell Mr. Benn that I don’t need his money and I caught this ball fair and fucking square.” 

“Segs,” Brownie hisses, jabbing his fingers into the soft spot between Tyler’s ribs and making him jump, “Stop being a fucking asshole and give the damn ball back.” 

Sidney looks constipated, “Name your price.” 

“Do you even realise how much I can milk this for?” Tyler grins gleefully at Brownie. “C’mon man, any price? I could ask for a million fucking dollars.” 

“You don’t need a million more dollars, Segs.” 

Sidney pinches the bridge of his nose, the horrified look on his face still firmly in place. 

Sidney reaches into his pocket, pulling out a checkbook, “Look, can we just-” 

“I want to meet Mr. Benn,” Tyler cuts Sidney off. “And my wifey, Brownie, gets to come too.”

Sidney’s flipping through the pages of the checkbook, pressing the tip of his finger to his tongue to help him turn the pages. Sidney pauses, “You want to what now?”

“I want to meet him,” Tyler grins gleefully. “Then maybe I’ll let him play with his balls.” 

Brownie is embarrassed for Tyler, that is the only word that comes to mind right now. Brownie is embarrassed for Tyler a lot, when it comes down to it. He’s a trainwreck waiting to happen when he’s got a beer in his hand (or something akin to a sex on the beach that he doesn’t admit to enjoying). 

Tyler is a few shitty Natty Daddy's in and he gets rude when he’s drunk. Really, being drunk is Tyler’s excuse for being rude since he’s rude all the time, but having a beer in his hand makes it easier to laugh it off. Brownie is pretty sure no one is going to be laughing this one off. 

“You can’t just.” Sidney huffs, not sure how to end his own sentence. 

He looks vaguely like a five year old about to stomp his foot, checkbook securely back into his pocket as he throws his hands into the air. It’s a look all too familiar to those who have to deal with Segs on a regular basis. Though, even Brownie catches himself stifling a laugh when Sidney almost knocks the beer out of the hands out of the loudmouthed asshole who has been rooting against Jamie all night. 

The laughter Tyler has been trying to choke back bubbles forward again, deep and loud, and a few people turn in their seats to stare at him. 

“You said anything, Mr. Crosby,” Tyler pouts at him, bottom lip wobbling in false pretense, “And I have named my price.” 

Not that he came with much, but Brownie sighs and heaves himself out of his plastic seat. He pats his pocket for his wallet and his and Tyler’s phones. He might as well have all of their things ready for when Sidney Crosby inevitably decides to call security and make sure they’re never allowed inside this stadium ever again. 

Brownie would not be that broken hearted. 

He’s in the middle of stacking Tyler’s pile of empty plastic beer cups when Sidney’s words make him freeze.

Sidney crosses his arms across his chest, biceps bulging ridiculously for a man who’s only an agent. “Fine. Fine, but don’t do anything... stupid.” 

Tyler gasps. “Do I look like a man who would do anything stupid?” 

It’s Brownie’s turn to laugh this time, pointing at Sidney he says, “You just made a deal with the devil, dude. The fucking devil.” 

The look on Sidney Crosby’s face says, yeah, he knows that. 

\---

Following Sidney down the hall towards the locker room is surreal. 

Tyler is about to meet the man who stars in his wet dreams, the man he’s idolized for years. He used to compete with Jamie Benn in college; of course it was all in Tyler’s head, the way he wanted to be as good as Jamie Benn one day. It wasn’t the same when Jamie was the star pitcher for the Texas Rangers and Tyler played first base at University of Boston, but it was a game Tyler played with himself before he had to give it all up, before he was forced to give it all up at the cost of his own childish stupidity. 

It’s loud and rambunctious in the locker room, Tyler can hear it from the hallway. It gets him hyped up, memories of college floating through his mind as the door opens and then closes behind them. 

“Hey Chubbs! We found your balls!” is the first thing Tyler hears, Jordie Benn’s voice and wide smirk carry it through the room. 

Tyler rolls the baseball between his fingers, he’d refused to give it up even when Sidney tried to pry it out of his hands, as Jamie approaches him, tentative smile on his face. 

“Hi, I’m Jamie,” Jamie sticks his hand out for Tyler to shake.

Tyler is trying not to laugh. Tyler has spent his whole afternoon trying not to laugh. 

“Did he just call you Chubbs?” 

Jamie’s face flames the most beautiful shade of red. 

“Jordie,” he spins on his heel and points a finger at his brother, “What the fuck.” 

“Chubbs,” Tyler can’t hold back his laughter anymore, baseball still clutched in his hand as he curls forward and braces himself on his knees. The sound is echoing off the walls and most of the team has stopped to look at him. 

“Brownie, did you fucking hear that? Jordie called him Chubbs!” Tyler says it like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard and Brownie is literally scandalized. There’s no chance in knowing what Tyler’s going to say when he’s got a few beers in him. 

Brownie walks over to where Jordie has made his stand, trying to put distance between him and Tyler. “Do you also think this is going to go very badly?” 

“Trainwreck, man. You know it.” 

They both snicker. 

“Look, we’ve met,” Jamie turns the hand that had been outstretched for a shake, palm up, waiting for the baseball to be placed in it. “Can I have the baseball back now?” 

“I don’t know, Chubbs. I don’t know if my time spent here in this fine establishment is worth the first home run of the series hit by a pitcher,” Tyler sneers. It’s meant to sound mean, the look on Tyler’s face is unapologetic for his words. 

Jamie narrows his eyes at Tyler. He is, objectively, one of the most attractive guys that Jamie has seen in a long time, but he’s rude. There’s a word for this, something Jenny had been bitching about a month ago that Jamie was only half listening to. It was something about beautiful boys who felt entitled to having people look at them, like they were the sun and everyone else needed to orbit them. 

It was the male version of a slut, Jamie thinks. 

Oh, right. 

“So this is what a fuckboy is,” Jamie mumbles to himself. Except Jamie doesn’t exactly have a concept of how deep his voice actually pitches and it carries itself pretty deep into the common spread of the locker room where most of the team is in various states of undress and quietly watching the exchange take place. 

“Excuse me?” Tyler’s jaw unhinges, but before he can get out any more of his sentence Brownie is cackling, head thrown all the way back like he’s the wicked witch of the west or caught on the downstroke of a really good blowjob. 

“Did he just call Segs a fuckboy?” Brownie asks on the tail end of heaving gasps, words broken up by his laughter, almost incoherent. 

Jordie understands him though, biting his lip to contain himself because he’s a professional and he can do things like that. 

Media face, he’s been trained. 

“Yeah, he really fucking did.” Jordie hasn’t been trained so well that he doesn’t swear anymore. 

“I bet you taught him that word,” Brownie says once his laughter calms down. “Fuckboy and Chubbs. Think they’ll be friends?” 

“They’ll probably hate each other.”

“I’ll put a fifty on them fucking,” one of the guys says. Brownie thinks he plays shortstop, a five o’clock shadow hiding his cheeks, shower wet hair dripping down his neck. 

“Shut up, Daddy,” Jordie shakes his head. “Chubbs has the worst game ever. No one is getting laid here.” 

“I’ll put a hundred on it,” someone else chips in, arm slinging around Jordie’s shoulders, giving his bicep a hard thump. 

“No one asked you, Oduya.” 

“Sure they did, Jor. Sure they did.” 

Brownie still has no interest in baseball, but the guys are kind of cool, he decides. After all, he does have Jordie Benn’s phone number under the pretense of this bet he didn’t actually enter. Brownie learned a long time ago never to bet for or against Tyler.

\---

The thing is, Jamie really doesn’t like Tyler. He’s everything Jenny described a fuckboy to be. The problem is that Tyler is excruciatingly hot, like fry an egg on his abs hot. Not that Jamie knows if Tyler has abs or not, but he seems like the kind of guy who takes care of himself enough to have abs. Jamie takes care of himself, but he definitely doesn’t have abs. He’s pretty sure, actually, that his body is just incapable of having abs. 

Jordie is making omelets, because Jamie should never be allowed to cook anything, even eggs. But he’s put Jamie to work chopping peppers and mushrooms, stealing bits of his own work before Jordie can add them to the eggs. “Do you think that maybe-”

“No, Jamie. If you mention Tyler one more time this week I’m going to let you live off KD for dinner,” Jordie shakes his head and cuts Jamie off, flipping the omelet onto itself after he had mixed the ingredients in. 

“Have a coffee, Chubbs,” Oduya groans and thunks a cup of coffee down on the counter next to Jamie. “You’re not you when you’re uncaffeinated.” 

He glares at Oduya, hair flying every direction and sleep warm, fingers trailing over the small of Jordie’s back as he moves around him to make a cup of coffee for himself. Sometimes, before he’s had his coffee, Jamie is jealous; he hates they way they move together in the morning. 

The first omelet is set down on the table in front of Oduya and Jamie turns his glare onto his brother. “I helped you cook!” 

“Johnny hasn’t been whining about ‘hot fuckboys’ for over a week, Chubbs. He gets priority.” 

“What you mean,” Jamie huffs and stirs another spoonful of sugar into his coffee, because he likes it sweet unlike Jordie’s ginger soul, “is that Johnny O gets priority because he sucks your dick on the regular.” 

“Fucking gross, Jame,” Jordie groans, passing over his plate of eggs. “Can we not discuss our sex lives? Like can I not hear anymore about how you want to lick Tyler’s abs?”

“Yeah, he might want to lick your abs, but you don’t have any, Chubbs,” Oduya grins around a mouth full of eggs, bringing his cup of coffee to his mouth to hide a laugh.

“Fuck you, okay.” 

“Eloquent, bro.” Jordie finally sits down with his own food across from them, foot tangling around Oduya’s. “You’re built like a fridge and you just gotta embrace it. No amount of crunches is going to give you a six pack. He might like it if you brought him some beer though.” 

“Yeah, but Tyler probably likes abs,” Jamie whines into his coffee cup. “And one night stands.” 

Oduya laughs, loud and rumbling, and has to push his plate away from him so he doesn’t fall face first into it. “When is the last time you had a one night stand?” 

“When’s the last time you had a one night stand?” Jamie counters pathetically. 

“Two years ago,” Jordie chimes in. “That was pathetic, bro.” 

Jamie sighs and picks up his fork again, scraping some of the red peppers to the side of his plate. “I know. But I just. He’s so attractive.” 

“We know, buddy. You’ve told us.” Oduya pats his shoulder as he stands up, carrying his plate over to the sink because while he doesn’t live with them, he kind of lives with them and he’s not a heathen. “And if you don’t tell him, we’ll tell him.”

“What!” Jamie splutters, coffee cup settling back down on the table so hard a bit splashes over the side of it. “You can’t, just. You can’t just tell him! Besides, you don’t even have his number!” 

“Sure I don’t, Jame.” 

\---

The weather in Dallas this time of year is too hot for Brownie’s delicate Canadian sensibilities, but somehow he’s found himself at yet another Texas Rangers game. Brownie blames Segs for this, for his obsession with Jamie Benn, baseball be damned.

Brownie had never been good at baseball stadiums. The metal bleachers in college made him hate the sport, humidity coming off the Boston water choked at his throat like the noose that starved his love of baseball. Except Brownie had never liked baseball, he had only liked Segs, which is why he’s here now with a plastic green seat underneath his ass and wearing on his memories like the college days he had happily left behind a long time ago. 

There’s a girl laughing with her boyfriend behind them, bright and annoying, pleading with him not to spend any more money than he already had because these seats had cost him a fortune. 

“Segs, how much did these fucking tickets cost?” 

Tyler turns his head lazily towards Brownie, second cup of Natty Daddy in his hand and it’s only the third inning. “Brownie,” Tyler reaches out, pressing a finger to Brownie’s lips. “Brownie, we’re rich, remember?” 

They might be rich, but despite the Rolex on his wrist, Tyler still chooses to drink Natty Daddy that costs $2.50 a cup. “That’s not the point, Segs!” 

Tyler raises an eyebrow. “The point is, it might take them,” he takes his finger off Brownie’s mouth and points it at the laughing couple who had been arguing over money a few moments ago, “a month’s salary to buy these tickets, but Brownie, baby, I make this in a day. Who the fuck cares how much these cost?”

There’s no use in talking about money to Tyler, Brownie knows. It’s the reason that Brownie was the one to major in business in college, while Tyler majored in drinking with a minor in marketing. 

“If you want to drop a grand on one night at a sports event can’t you at least spend it on a real sport?”

Several people, Tyler included, gape at him. They don’t even pretend they weren’t eavesdropping.

“Like hockey,” Brownie barrels on, “We could totally go to a hockey game. We’re Canadian, Segs! We’re supposed to eat, sleep, and breathe hockey!” 

Tyler gives him a dopey grin as he finishes off the last of his Natty Daddy. “Jamie is Canadian.”

Browie’s response is cut off by the crowd going up in cheers, standing and stomping and clapping and screaming. He doesn’t want to be the last man sitting, so he stands next to Tyler, just in time to be hooked around the neck and have Tyler screaming in his ear. “Did you fucking see that, Brownie!”

Brownie definitely didn’t see it. “Sure?” 

“Daddy hit a fucking home run with the bases loaded! This calls for celebration!” Because yes, it’s only the bottom of the fourth now and Tyler needs to be three shitty beers in, especially because he’s drinking Natty Daddy. 

“Daddy,” Brownie rolls his eyes and sits back down as Tyler is fishing a twenty out of his pocket and pressing it into the hands of the beer cart man, demanding he keep the change. “God why couldn't you have just been a normal Canadian and played hockey? Or at least had the decency to want in the pants of someone who plays. I mean, I hear the team here isn't the worst. They're not... great, but Dallas won a cup once, I think? Yeah, it might have been fifteen years ago, but c’mon Segs. Anything but baseball."

“Baby,” Tyler cracks open the fresh can of beer in his hands, “No one likes hockey.” 

“You’re Canadian, Tyler!” 

“So is Jamie,” he repeats, incredulous.

\---

Brownie doesn’t know where the origin of the Kiss Cam was, but all he knows is that he thinks it’s stupid. Especially when Tyler is tugging on his sleeve and pointing to the big screen in the scoreboard with their picture on it and little hearts surrounding their faces. 

What the fuck. 

“Wifey, c’mon!” 

Tyler is sloppy drunk, six cans of Natty Daddy sitting at their feet and one fresh one in Tyler’s hand. Brownie has no desire to kiss him. They tried that once when they were in college, both drunk and Tyler had glitter in his hair from a frat party. It was messy and rushed and Brownie will never forget what Tyler’s half chub felt like pressed against his hip. Not because he liked it, but because Brownie had been so horrified he had pushed Tyler clear off the bed and swore that it would never fucking happen again. 

It seems like these things just keep happening because here he is with a lap and mouthful of Tyler before he can even tell him no. It’s worse than Brownie remembers.

Tyler doesn’t keep it simple. There’s nothing simple about Tyler, Brownie knows, especially not when it comes to kissing. He’s seen Tyler on dance floors of clubs or pressed to lithe bodies in bar hallways. Tyler has no concept of privacy and Brownie has seen what he looks like when he’s fucking enough times to know that right now, he’s only along for the ride. So he settles his hands on Tyler’s hips where he’s splayed across his lap and tips his head up so his neck doesn’t cramp. Brownie kisses Tyler back minimally, gives him just enough to work with but not enough to push Tyler’s tongue into his mouth. 

Tyler should be grateful Brownie is such a good friend. 

“Okay, Ty,” he pushes Tyler back into his own seat and tries not to look at his kiss swollen lips. 

His phone buzzes and Brownie fishes into his pocket to retrieve it, thankful to focus on something other that the throb of his mouth. The screen lights up with Jordie’s name on it. 

Jordie had given Brownie his number the day they met because he thought Brownie was funny. Brownie never texted him, though, and Jordie didn’t text him either. It was weird, Brownie thought, because Jordie was famous and he wasn’t. His claim to fame wasn’t even his own, had Tyler Seguin’s name tacked all over it instead, the most famous chain of wineries -and most famous vineyard- in the south. 

Maybe Jordie was texting him now to fix this terrible mess, haunting memory of Tyler’s lips on his like a ghost he can’t get rid of. 

‘I have spent the last week listening to jame talk about your fuckboy friend and then you two fucking show up and he’s in your fucking lap MAKING OUT what the fuck brown. Jamie is gonna cry in his gatorade FIX IT’

Well. Jordie definitely isn’t going to fix this, then.

Instead, for the second game in a row, there’s a man in a suit standing at the end of their aisle when the game is over. 

“Patrick Sharp,” he introduces himself with no other explanation. 

Tyler’s eyes don’t exactly fix on Patrick’s form. He’s a few too many shitty beers in and Brownie has never been good at cutting Tyler off when he’s had too many. When they go out, their nights usually end in semi-sober Brownie dragging drunken Tyler home and putting Advil and Gatorade next to his bed so he actually shows up at work the next morning. 

Patrick looks positively gleeful, though. “You boys want to come back and hang with the team?” 

There’s something about the look in Patrick’s eye that puts Brownie on edge, but he’s thinking, maybe Jordie is going to fix things after all. He hopes, because Tyler is already standing up, swaying slightly and Brownie has to catch him before he stumbles into Patrick. Patrick presses his lips together not to laugh and Brownie really isn’t sure about him. 

“Had a few drinks, huh buddy?” Patrick wraps an arm around Tyler’s shoulders and guides him up the stairs slowly with practiced ease. He’s probably held up his fair share of drunken baseball players after a good win. Brownie assumes he’s an agent, especially in that suit.

“Fuckin’ love those Natty Daddy’s,” Tyler is slurring slightly and clinging to Patrick’s arm to keep upright. 

Brownie hopes Jordie knows what he’s asking for. 

“Natty Daddy, the official beer of Jason Demers,” Patrick looks over his shoulder and winks at Brownie. “We’ll have to let him know you like it, bud.”

The locker room falls into a hush when Patrick swings the door open, heads turning to stare at the scene in front of them. And it’s a scene, Brownie knows; he’s been around drunk Tyler enough times to know it’s not pretty, the way Tyler looks sated and glazed over with a drunken flush and lazy smile. Or perhaps it is, depending on your tastes. 

The deep blush on Jamie’s cheeks, running all the way down his bare chest tells Brownie he likes it. 

The look on Jordie’s face, however, let’s Brownie know this wasn’t his idea. Well fuck. 

A tremor of casual silence steamrolls over the locker room. 

Not many fans walk into the locker room, even fewer walk in twice. 

“Jamie,” Tyler croons as he breaks away from Patrick, pushing past a few of the guys who step out of his way with amused grins. He leans against the locker next to Jamie’s when he gets there and crosses his arms against his chest, stark contrast of his tattoos against the white of his vneck. “You look so pretty right now.” 

Tyler tries to reach out and cup Jamie’s cheek, but Jamie's too fast and Tyler is too drunk to actually touch him. Tyler pouts as Jamie watches him warily and jams his head through the ripped up neck hole of one of his practice tshirts. “You are very drunk.” 

“On Natty Daddy!” Patrick bellows into the room and a few guys went up in cheers, patting Daddy on the back and elbowing him in the ribs. 

If it’s even possible, Jamie turns an even brighter shade of red. He’s trying to slink out of the room unnoticed and he might make it except Tyler has a lock on him. Drunk Tyler is clingy and persistent. It’s partially why he gets so many people into his bed, bright smiles and lingering touches. No one seems to be immune, not even Jamie. 

“Fix it doesn’t mean get him more drunk.” Jordie’s catcher fingers are digging harshly into the back of Brownie’s arm. His grip is so tight that when Brownie tries to yank his arm away it only digs Jordie’s fingers in harder. There’s going to be a bruise, and not even the fun kind. 

Brownie huffs indignantly. “This wasn’t my idea.” 

“You’re not supposed to let Sharpy fucking drag you down here.” 

“It’s not like I knew who he was!” Brownie protests. 

There’s a deep rumble from somewhere behind Jordie, Oduya passing by with the corner of his mouth pulled up in amusement. “Does anyone know who Sharpy is?”

“Do not make me hurt you, Johnny,” Jordie narrows his eyes. He’s protective of his brother and no one, not even Johnny, is going to mess with his feelings. 

“Like I won’t like it,” the smirk on Oduya’s face gets wider as he walks away from them, stopping next to Sharpy and unsubtly fistbumping. 

“You’re so pretty, Chubbs,” Tyler repeats, pausing briefly. “But you’re not chubby. Why do they call you that? You’re just thick. I like it, because I’m small, you know? We’d fit.” Tyler reaches out again, still trying to get his hands on Jamie. He looks soft and plush in the places that Tyler has hard lines, like he would be perfect to lay on. Tyler really wants that. 

The blush on Jamie lights Tyler up from the outside, the anger in Jordie’s eyes does as well. Tyler might get off on pushing people’s buttons. 

“I thought you had something to do with this, Big Benn.” Brownie sighs, hand scratching at the back of his neck idly. He’s embarrassed for Jamie, the red of his face is a stark contrast to the red T tacked onto the front of his practice shirt. “Men in suits show up to take us to the locker room after games, starting to think it’s a regular occurrence, you know?” 

“Besides, dude,” Brownie presses on, “Tyler has been waxing poetic about how amazing Jamie is for weeks.” 

“Weeks,” Oduya laughs, popping up again and wrapping his arm around Jordie’s shoulders so tight the taller man can’t shrug him off. “Almost as bad as our boy.” 

“How about you shut the fuck up?” Jordie grits his teeth, tossing a look over his shoulder to Tyler, still smiling wide as he tries to press Jamie back against his locker. The longer Jordie looks, the more harmless it seems. Perhaps, like a boy with a schoolyard crush, pulling pigtails and expecting it to be obvious what game he was playing. The thing is, Jamie doesn't get hit on. Not to be rude or anything, but he just doesn't. Maybe it’s because he doesn't present himself that way, to be appealing to other people. But Tyler had seen it, had seen it in the hunch of Jamie’s shoulders to make himself smaller and in the self-depreciating smiles, had seen how beautiful Jamie is. Maybe that’s to be forgiven, then. 

Wrinkling his nose, Tyler takes one last drunken swipe at Jamie, fingers trying to find purchase on plush hips. He’s unsuccessful, again, and leans back. “Jamie,” he whines, licking his lips as he holds Jamie’s gaze, pale blush along his collarbones blazing up his neck. 

“Jamie,” he sighs, repeating himself. It’s cute in an unrelenting kind of way, like a puppy licking at his heels until their attention is something he actively seeks out, finds himself missing it when it’s not there. 

And then it’s not there. Instead, Tyler has himself plastered along Brownie’s side, fingers pushing through Brownie’s short hair. 

“Brownie, bro. Brownie, have you seen the way Jamie blushes? Isn’t it so pretty?” His fingers drag from Brownie’s hair to his cheek to cup it, patting it lightly a few times. “Pretty, Brownie. Much better now cuz Jamie cut his hair. He can’t hide anymore, you know? I can look at Jamie’s face all the time.” 

He pauses seriously, looking right at Jordie. “I could look at Jamie all the time.”

“So maybe look at Jamie, Segs. You already got your one free pass on a straight boy and it is not happening again.”

“You said that last time, Wifey! You just can’t keep your hands off me. Lemme tell you, buddy, get in line.” Tyler croons, lips pressing to the sweet spot behind Brownie’s ear.

Brownie jerks back and attempts to extract himself from Tyler, octopus limbs wrapped around him since he couldn’t get his hands on Jamie. “Swear to God, let the fuck go Segs or I will punch you in the dick.” 

Tyler scrambles to let go of Brownie, hulking laughter and a burst of Finnish flies through the air, Kari and Nemo huddled at their lockers laughing and chirping in their home language. He pouts, turning to Jamie who’s taken the time when the attention was off of him to slip into his Nikes and pour a pound of gel into his hair. “Jamie, did you hear Brownie? He’s trying to stop me from being able to love you correctly!” 

The receding blush Jamie had previously been sporting flares to life again to Tyler’s eminent delight. 

“Oh wow. Okay. Segs is done here.” Brownie is embarrassed for Jamie. He’s used to having Tyler’s undivided attention on him, he’s used to the chirping and the lack of filter Seg’s has when he’s drinking. Jamie is not and Jamie has been subjected to this cruelty enough. 

“C’mon Seggy, it’s time to pour you into the car. We’ve gotta go.” 

Jordie looks slightly less murderous, Brownie notes, more thoughtful as Jamie creeps over to stand next to him. He doesn’t look as scared of Tyler anymore, less baleful and more inquisitorial, intrigue flickering across his face in a lazy way. 

“We’re going,” Brownie repeats, wrapping an arm around Tyler’s shoulders and pushing him towards the door. “Maybe we’ll see you again.” 

“Oh, we’ll see you again!” Tyler winks over his shoulder. 

“Shut up, Seggy.”

\---

When Brownie slaps their stack of mail down on the table the next Monday there’s an envelope with the Rangers emblem staring back up at him. 

“Tyler!” He calls down the hallway of their shared house. “You might want to stop jerking it to thoughts of Jamie and get the fuck out here. Now.” 

It takes a minute before Tyler gets out of bed, feet padding their way through the house to the kitchen. They don’t have to live together, they just do. It’s a habit by now, sharing a dorm room and then a bedroom in their fraternity house in college. 

It made sense when Tyler graduated to move into Brownie’s shitty one bedroom apartment. It was familiar and they built their business from the ground up, starting on the kitchen table in a sketchy apartment in an even sketchier part of Dallas. They stuck with it as they grew up, as their business moved from their living room to a warehouse, to a storefront, to a vineyard. 

They live on the vineyard now, Tyler growing grapes to make wine, stockpiling a personal stash and warehousing the rest to be sold. 

When Tyler was seventeen, the head baseball coach for Boston University approached him after a spectacular no hitter he threw against his high school’s rival team. He’d traveled all the way to Canada just to watch Tyler play, whispers of Tyler Seguin being the MLB’s next big pitcher. Tyler didn’t believe them; he was nothing next to Jamie Benn, already an MLB all star, but he shook the man’s hand anyway and agreed to take a full ride to Boston University. 

College was a mass of beautiful women inviting him to sorority parties, showing him a good time with their lips around his dick. It was easy to forget that college was for learning. It was easy to forget a lot of things, to be honest. His scholarship was one, showing up late to too many practices in a row, failing enough tests that his coach couldn’t con his professors into curving them anymore. Tyler lost his scholarship after his sophomore year, stopped playing baseball, started attempting to learn something. 

That was when Brownie had pushed the idea at him, Tyler’s smarmy obsession with wine and Brownie’s desire to run his own business built them Mesquite Wine & Estates. That’s all she wrote, really. It started on their kitchen table and expanded to a stand alone storefront in Dallas and another in Tempe, Arizona, along with a vineyard. It wasn’t what Brownie had expected, but he’s more than pleased with the results. 

“I wasn’t jerking it, you asshole,” Tyler sighs and slumps into a stool at the island in the center of the kitchen. His basketball shorts are on backwards, Brownie notices. “The fuck do you want? I was up at like three am because those grapes from last season were done.”

“Oh,” Brownie shrugs. “I’ve been at the store all day. Let me tell you, I know shit about wine.” 

Tyler narrows his eyes at him. “Are you just realising this? I’ve only been trying to teach you for four years now.” 

“Shut the fuck up, man. Just open your letter.” Brownie shoves the envelope in Tyler’s face, too close for him to see anything besides a blur of Rangers red and blue. 

“The fuck is-” Tyler cut himself off, finally seeing the Rangers emblem on the front of the white envelope. With a careful hand he unseals the envelope, and pours the contents out onto the granite island. 

“Oh,” Tyler says as he looks at the tickets laid out in front of him. There are two season passes nestled alongside a handwritten note with Sidney Crosby’s signature on it. 

‘Misters Tyler & Brown,  
Please accept these season tickets as a token of our friendship and a request to please get Jamie to unwind.  
Sidney Crosby’

“Dude,” Brownie laughs, “I think Jamie Benn’s agent just asked you to fuck him.” 

“But bro, this has to mean Jamie likes me!” Tyler grins, throwing some finger guns at Brownie and winking. “I’ll show him half chub.”

“Don’t ever fucking say that to him or you’ll never get laid.” 

“Bet you I will,” Tyler sticks his tongue out at Brownie. 

“Bet you you’re an asshole,” Brownie rolls his eyes back at Tyler. He doesn’t doubt Tyler will get laid, he just doesn’t personally understand how.

\---

Brownie sits through two more mind numbing baseball games before he gets the text. The Rangers don’t play for another three days after that and Brownie is glad for the break. Jordie tells him to bring beer to an address, though Brownie isn’t sure that’s a good idea, considering how Tyler gets when he’s drinking beer. 

Beer is for chugging, wine is for sipping.

They show up at 8:10pm because Tyler is always fashionably late and clutching two cases of beer because he’s a fucking troll. They’d been at Binny’s when Tyler spotted the victory green 12 pack sporting the name Old Chub and deemed its purchase absolutely necessary. Brownie bought Molson because what else do you bring to a gathering of Canadians? 

They pull up to a mansion as grandiose as one Tyler would own, if Brownie would let him, in Brownie’s Toyota Prius. Tyler had attempted to drive his own car, but Brownie had vetoed that straight away. He wasn't going to let Tyler’s awful life (and car) choices reflect on the Benn’s opinion of him. 

Oduya pulls open the door, smirk perfectly in place (and when Brownie thinks about it, he’s never seen any expression but that one on the other man’s face).

“Come on in,” he leads them through the house to the kitchen so they can set the beer down. 

“So you brought beer?” Jordie asks as he ambles into the kitchen, something Goose Island dangling from his fingers. 

Tyler proudly pushes the victory green case at him, Old Chub label in thick white for Jamie to see as he walks in. 

“The fuck is this?” Jamie narrows his eyes at the offensive box. Jordie is already bent over in stitches, hands clutching at his sides as laughter bubbles out. 

“Fuck you, Philip,” Jamie says because he’s touchy. He’s not thin like Tyler and why would Tyler want someone who’s not as jacked as he is? 

Tyler’s eyes widen at the scene before him, still processing the last words to come out of Jamie’s mouth, “Philip?” He presses his lips together and looks over at Brownie. “What’s a Philip?” 

“Siri,” Brownie double taps the home button on his iPhone. “What’s a Philip Benn?” 

That’s what sends Tyler over the edge, curling over the white marble countertop next to the beer, laughter echoing loudly in the kitchen’s vaulted ceilings. He’s nearly crying with it, eyes crinkling at the edges. Next to him, Brownie is snickering quietly. 

“Baby,” Oduya still has his trademark smirk in place, pressing a hand to the small of Jordie’s back as he glares at them. “Drink some more of that beer, eh?” He guides the hand still gripping his beer to his mouth and Jordie glares at him, but takes a drink anyway. 

Jamie smiles. “Molson,” he reaches out and opens the case, taking a bottle for himself. “Exactly what you bring to a Canadian party.” 

“I’m not Canadian,” Oduya rolls his eyes.

“But you’re fucking one,” Jamie amends. 

\---

It’s not a true Canadian party if Tyler doesn’t end up trying to kill someone while playing Mario Kart. So, naturally, he insists they have to play. There’s a can of Old Chub pressed between his legs and he’s employing the tactic of ‘maybe if he leans enough to the side the kart will say on the track’. It’s definitely a sight to see. Jamie is enjoying the view. 

Tyler keeps licking his lips subconsciously as he elbows Jordie in the ribs as sabotage. Jamie knows he shouldn’t be looking, but he can’t help it. He knows he’s been caught when he feels eyes staring at him, blazing into the back of his neck. When Jamie shifts in his seat to look behind him, Brownie is standing in the doorway watching him. 

“Getting another beer,” Jamie mumbles and stands up. 

In the kitchen, Brownie corners him while Jamie is washing his hands for no reason other than to run some cool water over them in an effort to maybe, he doesn’t know, cleanse his thoughts. 

“Tyler is the most annoying asshole on the planet, but you can’t stop looking at him.” 

Jamie decidedly does not turn around. 

He does turn off the water though, and wipe his hands off on the towel next to the sink. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

When Brownie laughs it echoes meanly in Jamie’s ears. 

Out in the living room there’s a crash and Jamie is thankful that Brownie’s attention is pulled off him. 

Tyler is laying in the tiny space between the couch and the coffee table, having been pushed off the couch, Jamie assumes, by Jordie. The sight of Oduya smirking from the loveseat next to them tells him this is true. Whatever happened was dramatic, Jamie gathers, by the way Tyler has a hand thrown over his face and the XBOX controllers are thrown halfway across the room towards the TV. 

“Tyler is a sore loser,” Jordie beams, arm settled over the back of the couch from where he’s lounging across the space Tyler had vacated on his way to the floor. 

“I’m not a sore loser.” Tyler sits up and grabs his half empty can of Old Chub and chugs the rest. “You cheated. I would totally beat you at a game you can’t cheat at!”

“Tell us, Tyler,” Brownie rolls his eyes from where he’s standing at the threshold of the living room, “What do you deem is a game Philip can’t cheat at?”

Jordie narrows his eyes at Brownie. 

“Not Jordie. Jamie!” Tyler stands up, swaying slightly and pointing at Jamie. “Jamie can’t cheat at baseball.” 

Jamie frowns. “Why was I brought into this. I didn’t bet you anything.” 

“But I do! I bet you I can hit a homer prettier than the one you hit the day I caught it and if I do, then you have to suck my dick.”

The expression on Jordie’s face shifts quickly, from annoyance to glee at Tyler’s bet, flicking his eyes over to Brownie who looks horrified. It’s perfect, that Brownie looks like there’s no way Tyler can win this bet because maybe that means Jamie will finally get his dick wet. Maybe then he’ll stop complaining about how pretty Tyler is; though he’s not sure if that’s better than Jamie waxing poetic about how beautiful his come face is. Let's face it, Tyler is probably a crier. 

\---

Jamie’s face feels like it’s on fire once they step outside. It’s dark and the only lights on are the motion sensitive lights that loom in their backyard, stadium bright that Jamie has to squint against. Tyler is standing a respectable distance away from Jamie and it feels better, that Tyler can’t see the embarrassment flaming across his face at the bet put in place, the idea of Tyler’s lips around his dick. Jamie isn’t embarrassed by his dick. He has a nice dick. He’s just embarrassed that he’s not as fit as Tyler. After all, he’s the professional athlete, right? 

“Okay, okay,” Tyler calls, still swaying unsteadily as he takes a few practice swings with one of the many bats they have laying around their house. Jordie is crouched behind him with a glove ready to play catcher. “I’ll a..am.. amn. I’ll change the bet. No immediate flelly... flella... fellatit.... blowies! Got it, no bj's off the bat.” 

Tyler takes a long pause to lean over and chuckle at his own joke. “If I win then you gotta buy me a steak. Like a fuckin good one. You can't cheap out and go for Longhorn or some shit like that. I know you can afford it.”

And okay, Jamie can get behind that. Tyler is pretty, but he’s fuckboy pretty. He’s probably in his last year at college and rocking the fraternity life on cheap beer and counting the swipes he has for meals in the cafeteria. He probably hasn’t had a good steak since he lived at home, if he even had one then. 

“Yeah, okay,” Jamie nods at him. 

“Hey batta, batta. Hey batta, batta, swing!” Tyler calls, still unsteady on his feet. 

This is going to be simple. Jamie will pitch three times, Tyler will strike all three, and then he can pretend none of this ever happened. He’s not going to go easy on him, though, Jamie knows, because Tyler was right. Jamie can't cheat at baseball. 

Jamie winds up and pitches, baseball flying from his fingers at regulation 94 MPH. It takes four-tenths of a second for the baseball to travel the sixty feet from the pitcher’s mound to the batter and Jamie knows immediately that he’s fucked. 

It’s beautiful, if Jamie is being honest. The coil and release of Tyler’s muscles, carefully honed from hours spent in the gym and the sound the bat makes when it connects with the ball sends a shiver down his spine. 

“Suck my dick!” Tyler screams and throws the bat down and his hands in the air. “Suck my fucking dick, Jamie Benn!” 

“Did you know that was going to happen?” Oduya turns to ask Brownie, hands shoved up under his armpits as if they were cold in the stifling Dallas heat of mid July. 

“Yeah,” Brownie shrugs, watching Jordie gape at Tyler who is still screaming. Brownie is vaguely grateful the Benn’s don’t have neighbors. “Seggy went to BU on a baseball scholarship. Pitching, actually. But they played him at first base, he got a shit ton better at batting after that.”

“Are you fucking-” Jordie shakes his head as he walks up, glove tucked safely under his arm. “Hey Chubbs! Tyler went to school on a baseball scholarship!”

“Playa played!” Tyler screams as he walks up to join them on the back porch. 

Yeah, Jamie is fucked. 

\--- 

Jamie isn’t a sore loser, is the thing, so obviously he’s taking Tyler out. He reserves a table at Five-Sixty, recommended to him by Fidds who has a superior palate. (Those are his words and not Jamie’s). When he calls, Five-Sixty is booked out until November, so he throws his name around a little and suddenly the woman on the phone has a table for him next Friday night. It’s not exactly Jamie’s proudest moment. 

Jamie lets the valet park his car and takes up post outside the restaurant's doors. Tyler had texted him to meet there because he had a last minute stop to make but he promised that he wouldn’t miss their date for the world. Jamie hadn’t been sure it was a date, but he’d hoped. He’s fiddling with his cuff links, Ranger R’s on a silver face that Jordie had bought him with his first check from the big leagues, when a roaring engine pulling into the valet makes Jamie look up. 

It’s Tyler and he’s stepping out of a matte grey Jeep Wrangler. Tyler is as tall as the car and the wheels on it make Jamie think of when coach makes them flip tires in punishment for bad games. The rims are black and chrome and when Jamie squints against the unnecessary amount of money poured into the Jeep, he spies the word kevlar written across the front of the hood. The entire thing is incredibly ostentatious, right down to Tyler standing there next to the Jeep in a tailored suit from some designer Fidds would be cursing him out over not recognizing. The setting sun catches the watch on Tyler’s wrist, a heavy Rolex that Jamie does recognize straight away. 

It’s unsettling and Jamie is forced to reevaluate his ideals about Tyler in the mere seconds it takes Tyler to walk up to him, fingers catching his elbow as he leans in to press a kiss to Jamie’s cheek, like he knows him, like they’re those kind of friends. 

Jamie wasn't aware they were friends at all. 

Somehow the only thing Jamie can say is, “I thought you drove a Prius?”

Tyler laughs, because it seems like Tyler is always laughing, and pulls open the door to the restaurant's main entrance. It’s infectious and Jamie finds himself smiling, like they’re sharing a joke. Perhaps Tyler is, Jamie just hasn’t gotten the punchline yet. 

“That awful excuse of a car is Brownie’s. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a hybrid,” Tyler’s nose wrinkles. 

Hybrids are soccer mom cars, pile in kids you haven’t made and drive them around town cars, ‘I just got married and am sacrificing my dream for practicality’ cars. Tyler would never drive a hybrid, and somehow Jamie knows this is true. 

His musing is interrupted by a bottle blonde in a black pencil skirt and towering heels hugging Tyler, leaning in with a razor sharp smile. Jamie’s stomach rolls even though Tyler’s hands are in perfectly safe places. 

“Table for two, Mr. Seguin?” she asks when she finally lets go of Tyler. 

Jamie can almost see Tyler’s cheeks flare as he steps back into Jamie’s side, hand back on his elbow. “Angela, there’s a real celebrity here today.” 

“Oh!” Angela startles, “I’m so sorry Mr. Benn. I didn’t, uh, see you there.” 

“I suppose you didn’t,” Jamie bites out. “It seems you only have eyes for Tyler, here.” 

Angela has the nerve to look embarrassed while Tyler blushes next to him. It’s not a look he’s ever seen on Tyler’s face before, but Jamie could grow to like it, the heated way Tyler looks at him and then ducks his eyes away, almost shy.

They’re saved by a pretty brunette whose smile reminds Jamie of Jenny. She steps around Angela, “Sorry about Angela,” she gives them a private smile “I’m Macy. Just follow me gentlemen.” Macy leads them towards a table in the back with a reserved sign on it, leaving them with menus, soft smile, and then walks away. 

“Fidds told me this place was good,” Jamie says softly as he opens the beer list, eyes tracking over it. He’s not sure what Tyler would drink, but he seems awfully keen on shitty college beer. Something light, then? “But I guess you would know.” 

Tyler doesn’t try to hide his megawatt smile. “Five-Sixty is one of my biggest clients.” Tyler should be bragging, but it’s not in his tone. 

When he reaches out across the mahogany table, pushing the candle in the middle out of his way, Tyler’s fingers brush Jamie’s. “We definitely don’t need this,” his smile is still there as he pulls the beer list out of Jamie’s hands. 

“Mr. Benn, Mr. Seguin,” their waiter addresses them before Jamie can reply to Tyler. 

He is very tall and as thin as maybe one of Jamie’s thighs. 

“My name is Marc-Andre,” he nods at Jamie, because clearly Tyler already knows everyone who works here; he eats here regularly, even. “What will we be drinking tonight?” he turns this question to Tyler. 

“Did you get in the 1982 Dom Pérignon P3 I suggested?” Tyler asks and the words roll of Tyler’s tongue like water, or perhaps like wine. 

Jamie doesn’t understand who the person sitting across from him is, million dollar smile tucked in place like it belongs there. The Rolex does too, Jamie knows, the longer he stares at it. The suit, the tie, the attitude; they all don’t reconcile with the Tyler that Jamie knows. This isn’t the boy from the locker room drunk off shitty beer with lecherous hands and no filter on his words. Tyler Seguin is a different entity from Tyler, just as the Jamie sitting here now is different from the Jamie Benn of the Texas Rangers. Jamie isn’t sure which version he likes better. 

The only thing he is sure of is that Tyler is trying to impress him. 

It might be working. 

Marc-Andre sets down two glasses and a bottle of white wine, popping the cork and pouring them each a glass to interrupt Jamie’s musings. “I’ll be back shortly for your order, gentlemen.” 

“You still owe me dinner, but I’ll buy the wine.” Tyler’s smile dims, not as grand and a little more private. Jamie likes this better, like he’s not putting on a show. “Oh, and you should get the pan seared redfish, it will go great with the wine.” 

Jamie ends up getting the redfish with prawn and lobster laksa and rice noodles. The first bite tastes like heaven and his second glass of wine compliments the dish just as Tyler had suggested. 

Tyler orders the New York prime that Jamie promised him and the wine is a little off for the dish, Tyler says, but it’s worth it because Jamie needed to try it. 

“So, what do you do for work if this place is one of your best clients?” Jamie asks. 

“Oh,” Tyler almost looks sheepish. “You can’t tell? I own a wine company with Brownie. We actually live on a vineyard. One of the wines on the menu here is mine.”

Jamie is floored. 

What the fuck. 

“You own a wine company,” Jamie repeats back to him, because it’s so off from the Tyler he had imagined previously, more sure and distinguished when Tyler dimples back at him. 

“With Brownie,” he nods and glances down at his steak as he cuts into it. It runs red across the plate and into his potatoes, far more rare than Jamie would ever dare eat a steak, but Tyler hums in pleasure.

“Opened when I was in college still. Brownie had graduated and we ran it out of our living room. It was a mess, actually. But that was four years ago,” Tyler shrugged. “We’re the biggest vineyard in Dallas now.”

Jamie blinks down at the plate in front of him. Five-Sixty is a fine dining restaurant, but not so fine that they don’t show their prices on the menu. Tyler’s steak and his own fish won’t hurt his wallet. It seems like it wouldn’t hurt Tyler’s either. 

“Do I want to know how much this bottle of wine costs?” 

Tyler smiles sweetly. “It’s better if you don’t ask.” 

“But wine? How did you get into wine? I mean you drink-” Jamie cuts himself off and waves his hand in the air. Jamie can’t understand how Tyler can drink Natty Daddy (of all things) and be a wine connoisseur.

“I had a friend in high school, Jesse Blacker, who’s mom was a total milf. Let’s just say I spent a lot of time at his house, you know?” Tyler winks. “She kind of humored me, I guess. We sat around and drank wine in the kitchen. I felt cool and distinguished. They were wealthy for the area we lived in and I always envied Jesse because he threw these wicked parties, but I got back at him by drinking wine with his mom after baseball practice. I wanted to impress her so I ate up everything she taught me. When I went to college it stuck. Sure, I like shitty beer, but a great wine is like a great body, and you’ve got to appreciate that.”

Tyler’s eyes sweep over Jamie’s form, sharp and appreciative. “I definitely appreciate that.” 

Jamie feels his face flush. 

\---

The rest of dinner goes well. Tyler keeps a running commentary throughout the meal, making sure Jamie is enjoying his food, and of course the wine. He’s charmed, is the thing, and Jamie can see himself sitting across from Tyler for many meals after this one, drinking expensive wine and laughing at all of Tyler’s crude jokes. 

He’s come to accept that’s just how Tyler’s sense of humor was built, formed in high school by a boy named Jesse Blacker (and his mom) and of course only grew in college. It’s a lot less fuckboyesque now that Jamie can see it up close, can see the smirk on Tyler’s lips when he finishes each joke. Jamie wants Tyler to look at him always, but the thing is, he’s still not sure if that’s allowed. 

He can’t tell if the jokes are just jokes. 

Jamie quietly insists on putting his number in Tyler’s phone after they split the bill. It’s not like Jamie can’t afford the ridiculously priced bottle of wine, but Tyler won’t let him pay for it. He beams at Jamie when he looks at the new contact and handles Jamie’s phone with a little more care than necessary as he types in his own phone number with the wine glass emoji after his name. 

At the valet Tyler kisses Jamie’s cheek with his hand resting at the small of his back and that tiny point of contact is enough to make Jamie melt. It takes a lot for him not to turn his head into Tyler’s lips, to press their lips together softly. He doesn’t know how it would be received, he doesn't know if Tyler would laugh at him. He can’t afford for Tyler to laugh at him, to out him as the first gay player in the MLB (not that he thinks Tyler would purposely do that to him, but he is having a hard time still differentiating Tyler, fuckboy extraordinaire from Tyler Seguin, millionaire wine entrepreneur). 

\---

Tuesdays aren’t exactly eventful. 

It takes three days for Tyler to text Jamie; he sends him a video of Marshall chasing Cash around the backyard. The backyard is larger than Jamie expected, but everything about Tyler is larger than Jamie expected. He can’t stop thinking about who Tyler really is, that he’s wealthy and well known in his own right, that he doesn’t need Jamie’s name tacked onto his to become someone. Tyler already is someone. 

Jamie Benn 2:14pm  
Your dogs are really cute. The big one is Marshall?

Tyler Seguin 2:27pm  
Yeah he’s my baby (: Cash is his pal though.

Jamie Benn 2:31pm  
You make a really good dog dad (:

Four days later, wineauntsegs requests to follow Jamie on instagram. Jamie accepts it with a smirk on his face. Tyler mostly posts pictures of his dogs. Jamie learns Marshall is the brown lab and the black one is Cash. It’s ridiculously adorable how cute Tyler is with them and it makes Jamie’s heart melt a little with every picture Tyler puts up. 

He also posts a lot of promotional photos, ones of him in suits rubbing elbows with other famous people and Jamie has a really hard time figuring out why Tyler was so stricken by him if he’s met Wayne Gretzky and Dez Bryant. (Tyler also looks good in a well tailored suit. So good.) He also has a picture of himself standing in his kitchen with a canvas behind him that reads “Good friends, good wine, good times”. Jamie laughs harder than he should at the irony. He doesn’t mean to scroll through Tyler’s whole feed, but it’s marginally more exciting that Jamie’s own instagram full of selfies taken too close to his face and a lot of pictures with Jordie. 

He tries not to wonder if Tyler instagram stalks him as well. (Tyler totally does.) Jamie only finds this out when his phone pings one day with a notification that wineauntsegs likes one of his photos. It’s from when Jamie first made his Instagram and the notification makes him grin.

They text back and forth for days. 

Jamie gets into a habit of constantly checking his phone and even Val, whose English isn’t that great, gets in on it, having Fidds teach him the best chirps to throw at Jamie. It’s horrible, really. The next time the guys ask him if he has a girlfriend Jamie might snap because it’s the league’s worst kept secret, that Jamie Benn bats for the other team. Honestly, it’s the only reason Jamie has Sidney Crosby as his agent. 

Sidney Crosby is the king of PR disasters and with an ass like that he has quite the reputation. He’s also the reason Jamie’s name is on the list for every gay bar in the state. When Sidney Crosby goes, he goes all out, albeit somewhat awkwardly. 

When it becomes glaringly obvious the Rangers have made the playoffs, Daddy demands the whole team makes a night of it at So&So’s. 

Jamie Benn 8:12pm  
The team is going to So&So’s at 10. Do you want to join us? 

It sounds weirdly formal and Jamie’s hands are sweating after he sends the text off to Tyler. He’s nervous and there’s a telltale blush creeping up his neck. It’s hidden by his collar for the most part, but he doesn’t think he can handle any more of Val’s broken English chirping. It’s embarrassing for the both of them even though Val looks very proud of himself afterwards. 

Tyler Seguin 8:25pm  
I’ll be there (:

\---

Tyler has been to So&So’s approximately one time before tonight. It’s on the other end of town and he’s more about hole in the wall bars and bathroom blowjobs rather than the bar and club scene where he actually has to put effort into picking up. He’s not exactly into spending his money on top shelf whiskey when he could just have a Bud Light instead. Or a Malibu pineapple. Besides, tonight isn’t about picking up.

He can hear the team before he seems them, loud commotion in the back of the club. They have a booth, most of the team packed around it with elbows spread out to dictate whose space is whose. Tyler nudges his way around the women gathered behind them, peeking over shoulders as they sip on cosmos, trying to figure out who exactly was single. 

Not Jamie, if Tyler could help it. Maybe tonight was a little bit about picking up, just not a stranger.

He flushes at the thought and hopes he can play it off as being overheated from the packed bar when he presses a hand to the small of Jamie’s back. The smile Jamie tosses over his shoulder at Tyler makes his stomach flutter pleasantly and his fingers press a little harder against Jamie’s skin. 

“You made it!” Jamie pushes against Jordie who’s in the booth next to him, making room for Tyler to sit down. 

Tyler will always make it for Jamie. It’s ridiculous. 

“Nice to see you again, man,” Jordie reaches around Jamie to clap Tyler on the shoulder and from his other side, Oduya smirks and nods at him. Tyler smirks back at him, it’s in the bro code. “And without Brownie.” 

“Yeah, I decided to leave the wifey at home.” Tyler leans back in his chair and stretches his arm out against the booth behind Jamie’s shoulders. “So that means someone needs to buy me a beer.” 

“It’s my turn for a round,” Oduya says, standing up. “I think I can figure out what you like, Segs.” 

The booze keeps coming all night, Oduya starting a chain of baseball players pushing terrible, skunky beers in front of Tyler and waiting to see if he’ll drink them. Tyler, of course, drinks them all. They range from Heineken to Corona Lite with no lime and some of them are truly terrible, but Tyler lives for shitty, cheap beer and he’s paying for none of it so he’s not going to complain. 

Four beers in, Tyler bats at Jamie’s shoulder and digs his fingers into the space on either side of Jamie’s knee until he jumps. “The fuck, Tyler?” Jamie tries, and fails, to glare at him. 

“Sorry, babe but I gotta piss.” He squeezes Jamie’s leg one more time, softer this time, like a promise of something Jamie won’t ever hope to happen. 

“Fine,” Jamie sighs and stands up. “Who wants in on the next round? I’ll get this one.” 

“Me,” Tyler grins, pressing a kiss to Jamie’s cheek and then flouncing away. 

Jamie can recognise that Tyler has consumed enough shitty beers to make that seem like a good idea; that Tyler tends to throw himself at anything remotely attractive. Jamie might be a little self-conscious, but he can admit that despite being built like a refrigerator, some guys are into that. Maybe Tyler is, but that doesn’t mean he likes him. He is a fuckboy afterall; that’s what Jamie keeps telling himself so he doesn’t end up disappointed.

Standing at the bar is loud and crowded, and Jamie has to use his elbows to block out enough space for himself so that the girl next to him isn’t pressing her ass into his thigh while running her talon claws up some poor guy's arm. He looks into it, Jamie doesn’t understand how. Past her blonde hair Jamie spots a shelf of wine and it seems, through the Jameson and Cokes he’s had all night, that buying Tyler a glass of wine instead of another light beer might be a good idea. 

Except that Jamie has no idea about wine so this is really a terrible idea. 

He fumbles for his phone, though he’s not sure why because he knows pretty much nothing about wine, when the bartender steps up in front of him. 

“Hi, um. So I need a Blue Moon, a Jameson and Coke, seven shots of Rumplemintz, a pitcher of Rebel IPA, and uh. Some wine?” Jamie rattles the order off, hesitating at the end.

“Some wine?” the bartender smirks. He’s tall, wearing a black wife beater designed for ample tips and to make other guys intimidated by the gun show he’s offering. And damn, it’s some show. Jamie glares valiantly instead of raking his eyes over the man’s body. 

“There’s a girl you’re trying to impress, huh?” 

Jamie glowers and opens his mouth to respond. “White or red?” the bartender cuts him off. 

“Red.” Jamie nods, sure. 

“Well, at least you didn’t hesitate on that one. Sweet or dry?”

He sighs, “I don’t think it matters? Just give me the most expensive.”

“The most expensive,” the bartender parrots and rolls his eyes, turning around and grabbing a bottle and a glass and filling it, setting it on the tray next to the rest of Jamie’s order.

Tyler scoots out when Jamie comes back with the drinks, leaving room for him to settle back into the seat between Jordie and Tyler. The cushion is still warm, like Tyler had taken his seat in his absence. Hands reach across the table wildly to pull and pour drinks; there’s a loud cheer that goes up when Nishky realises that Jamie bought Rumplemintz, bullying people to take shots with him. It’s nothing like the Russian vodka of his motherland, but Jamie knows there’s something deceptive in the way the young third baseman enjoys watching the rest of the team cough and splutter around the vicious, mint filled burn. 

Tyler finishes the shot, slamming the thick bottomed glass against the table when he’s done and squints at the lone glass of wine still sitting on the tray in the middle of the table. “I’m assuming this is for me,” he reaches out and brings the glass to sit in front of him, wrapping his free arm back around the back of the booth behind Jamie. 

“What the fuck?” Daddy raises an eyebrow at them. “Trying to win your boy, Chubbs?” 

Jamie winces. Tyler isn’t his boy. 

“Nah, it’s part of the game, isn’t it Chubbs?” 

The conversation around the table comes to a lull when Tyler picks up the glass, looking at it with narrowed eyes. 

“Not a wine drinker, Seggy?” Daddy asks; they’ve taken to calling him by his nickname, which he appreciates. It means he’s been accepted as one of the boys. 

Tyler smirks. “Red,” he hums, still looking at the glass. “I actually don’t come here often, but based on geographical location and social status, I’m going to assume they serve Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. Probably also Zinfandel and Pinot Noir. Malbec or Tempranillo, if I’m lucky.” 

The entire booth is staring at him, though Tyler’s concentration is on the glass in his hand and the way Jamie’s thigh is pressed hot against his. 

“The color takes the Pinot Noir out of the mix,” Tyler pauses and raises the glass to his nose. “Deep, not fruity and definitely a fully-body wine. Not Merlot, then. A little spice, I can tell this will be dry.” Tyler purses his lips and swirls the glass. “Texas wine, I bet,” he grins. 

Sipping slowly, Tyler smiles around his glass. “Temperanillo, new barrel, though. 2013, I think. Impressive for a place like this, though, it is from Texas, so.” Tyler shrugged. 

The table gaped at him. “How the fuck did you do that?” 

“Hey Mrs. Robinson,” Tyler winks and raises the glass again, taking a few sips. 

“Stacy’s mom has got it going on?” Daddy sings back at him and a few smirks go up around the table. Jamie has heard this story before, but it never settled right with him. 

Tyler lists into Jamie’s side when he finishes the wine, pressing a hand high up on Jamie’s thigh. His breath is warm against Jamie’s neck and he can feel himself heat up from the inside out. It would be so easy just turn his head to the side and catch Tyler’s lips on his own, smiles against them and press in deep, slip a tongue between his lips and chase the taste of wine and beer from his mouth until all he could taste was Tyler. 

“Babe,” Tyler is saying, “Baby, please never buy me wine again. Like I appreciate it and I know you’re trying to impress me. I’m impressed, I promise, but like, that wine was so bad. It was so bad, baby. Just buy me a beer or a sex on the beach. As long as it’s fruity I’ll drink it, okay? Wine is supposed to cost hundreds, not dollars.”

Jamie is distracted by the hands only inches from his dick. If he shifts just a little bit he can get Tyler’s pinky pressed up against him and he can’t quite think about formulating a proper reply with Tyler’s hand searing heat into his leg and calling him baby at the same time. 

“Okay but Tyler is the master at bets.” Oduya interrupts their doe eyes for the sake of everyone else at the table, preening like the cat who got the canary as he turns towards the rest of the table, his eyes find Jamie’s. 

Jamie scrambles for a reply, but is still at a loss for words. Someone has given Tyler another beer and he’s smiling softly now, loose around the edges. 

“You know it!” Tyler raises his glass into the air and winks at the table, Daddy catching his eye and shaking his head. 

“What bet did you win?” 

“Oh, just that Seggy here is a better batter drunk than Chubbs will ever be sober.”

“You hustled me!” Jamie shrieks, scandalized. “How was I supposed to know you could bat? You were betting Jordie!” 

“Philip,” Tyler snickered, dodging out of the way when Jordie tries to punch him. “Damn right I hustled you, babe. I can hustle you when I'm drunker than a fish in an ocean of vodka!”

“I think, you’re a few too many in for metaphors, buddy.”

Tyler rolls his eyes. “Whatever, I have some sick baseball moves and nobody believed me until I schooled JaBenn over here.” 

Jordie and Oduya high-five each other not subtle at all when Tyler turns back to Jamie, lips pressed to his cheek, and fails at whispering “You know I can take your pitches, baby.” Jamie turns bright red and the table goes up in laughter.

\---

There’s a running bet, because Daddy is determined to win that Tyler cannot win all things. He’s a gambler and that’s all that matters, betting people left and right that they can and cannot do things for the sake of seeing them bristle while he smirks at them. Daddy puts a hundred dollars on Jamie having terrible enough game that he’ll never land Tyler. Tyler’s game is good enough that he can land Jamie. Daddy wasn’t counting on that. 

Oduya wins. 

\--- 

The party that happens when the the Rangers win the Commissioner's Trophy rivals the Bruins’ blowout of 2011. They’re at a club in downtown Dallas with a table and bottle service and blonde, huge titted servers who smile and hope to go home with one of them. 

Tyler is hanging off Jamie’s side and Jamie has just enough shots to think that wrapping an arm around Tyler is a good idea. He’s not sloppy, but Tyler almost is. His drink is cool against his palm and Tyler’s is almost sloshing over the side of his glass, but they’re warm and happy and they just won the Trophy. Everything seems like a good idea to Jamie right now, especially leaning over and maybe kissing Tyler, now that he’s allowed. 

“Hi, um, excuse me,” says Sid, a constipated look on his face as he approaches them. He’s not in his usual suit, dressed down in a pair of jeans and a Ranger’s tshirt. 

“Um, hi,” Tyler grins. “You’ve said that twice, man.” 

And yeah he has, but it makes Tyler smile. He remembers when Sid first said that. So much has changed since then.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come follow me on [tumblr](http://chicago-runsonduncan.tumblr.com) where I post a lot of hockey and don’t usually talk about myself that much.


End file.
